


A second chance

by Evenatango



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/F, One shot (probably)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenatango/pseuds/Evenatango
Summary: A take on Patsy's decision to leave the hospital for Nonnatus House and so take herself away from Delia, all in a shiny new setting (or rather, a dark, old setting, since it takes place on a December night in 1943)





	A second chance

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the world war 2 fic I planned to write, though I have planned to write one for a very long time. It may eventually evolve into something longer (and indeed possibly something quite different), but I haven't written anything at all for so long, I thought I might as well share it as is for now.

Snow in war time London was a mixed blessing. It fell in great, fat, fluffy flakes, painting even the filthiest streets in the most squalid parts of Poplar a perfect, pristine white. It softened the ragged edges of bombed out buildings until it was almost possible to believe them to be whole. Under its thick blanket, the great, bustling city seemed like a child, tucked in for the night amid downy pillows. And the city responded. When snow lay fresh on the ground, the world seemed quieter than it had been before, its people bearing witness to the changed landscape in hushed awe.

But if you put out a hand and caught one, the snowflakes that looked so clean and fresh would melt, leaving nothing but a gritty smear of water on your outstretched palm. Falling snow was full of the soot and dirt of London air. It stained white fabric and dirtied coats. It hid the refuse on the street and made it difficult to avoid putting an unwitting foot into something unpleasant. And all across the city, in underground stations and slums and half-toppled buildings, the poorest people of London quietly froze to death.

This was Patsy's London. A city of filth and fleas and abject poverty, of unwed women delivering the illegitimate children of soldiers they'd never see again, of rank smells and coats worn see-through and never having enough of anything. Into all this she came, armed with nothing but the skill in her hands and a worn leather bag of midwifery supplies; to somehow leave things better than she found them.

Tonight she was crouching beside Pearl Winston in the kitchen of a building that had been condemned as unsafe months ago. It was almost as cold inside as out, and there was no power, no gas to heat water, or light to see what she was doing beyond two guttering candles and the waning light of her bike lamp (forbidden on the street since the blackout, but kept close for just such emergencies) and the baby was showing signs of distress. It seemed to Patsy that things really couldn't get any worse. That is, until the air raid siren began to wail overhead.

They shouldn't have come tonight. The snow storm should have kept their fighter pilots safely away, it was a suicide mission, surely... but there was no mistaking that ghostly wail. Patsy's blood seemed to freeze in her veins. There was no way Pearl could be moved – not even if she had a full ambulance team and stretcher bearers at her disposal, not at this stage, and _certainly_ not with no one there but her. She had been told when she joined Nonnatus House that her own safety was to come first, that if she had to, she should leave a dangerous situation even if it meant abandoning her patient, because the only way they could keep working was not to lose their trained members of staff. It made sense, logically. But if Patsy left now then Pearl and her child would certainly die, whether the bombers came close or not.

Pushing a loose strand of hair back from her forehead, Patsy bent back to her task, for all her knees were trembling and her heart pounding. She tried to sound calm even as she raised her voice above the siren, telling Pearl not to push, to hold on just a little longer... She did her best to sound perfectly in control, as if all was going as smoothly as she could wish, but she wasn't fooling anyone. Not the woman whose child she was trying to bring forth, racing against the bombs that would begin to fall like deadly hail at any moment. Not the warden who banged on the door and yelled at them to _get down to the shelter,_ though it was quite plain that they couldn't. And not herself, for all the reassuring smiles plastered onto her face.

Patsy was guiding the infant's head out when the first _'wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeBOOOM'_ sounded, terrifyingly close. Close enough to rattle the loose windows in their frames, and send small showers of dust spiralling down from the ceiling. And then Pearl's daughter was born in a rush of fluid and a flail of tiny limbs; her outraged yells at the feel of freezing air on her fragile new skin joining the general din as the explosions came ever closer. Patsy had barely had time to cut the cord and wrap the child in the old towel that must pass for her first blanket, before the whistling was almost directly over head. And then the world came to an end.

It wasn't a direct hit, but it was somewhere close, across the road perhaps. Time seemed to slow and stretch like warm toffee, thick and heavy, and Patsy felt almost detached as she watched the wall bow inwards in what must have been a split second but seemed like long minutes of unstoppable horror. The only clear thought in her head was that she had to keep hold of the baby, to shield it somehow from what was about to happen. And then the wall exploded, flinging furniture and bricks and deadly shards of broken glass across the room. Everything was a mess of flying rubble and choking dust and a ringing in her ears that went on and on and on. Then something struck her temple and everything went dark.

**…**

She woke slowly, and the first thing she was aware of was the cold. It leached right into her bones and numbed her limbs, biting painfully at fingers and toes. Had she fallen asleep with the window open? She had the most terrible migraine, it was no wonder. Never mind. Trixie would be home soon, she could deal with it. Patsy just wanted to sleep. But there was someone talking to her, their tone urgent, insistent. She wished they'd be quiet. She was so tired...

Hands shook her shoulder, and that voice again, louder now, and something was being pressed to her lips. It was only when water filled her mouth that Patsy realised how abominably dry her throat was, as if she'd been trying to chew through a sandbag. Her teeth were gritty with it. At last, she managed to prise open her reluctant eyelids and get her bearings.

Oh God, she was dead. Dead and buried, that was why she was so cold and her mouth was full of dirt. That was why there was an angel leaning over her, giving her water and smoothing the mess of hair from her face with gentle hands. Patsy didn't believe in angels, but there was no other explanation, because the dark haired women holding the water bottle looked exactly like her own personal angel, the girl who had shown her what it was to love, and who would never look at her so tenderly again, not in this life time. Not after the way Patsy had treated her... So she was dead, or hallucinating and about to die.

She smiled blearily through cracked lips and spoke to the vision, her voice barely a whisper as it struggled through her dust-caked throat.

'Hello Deels'.

'Patsy! Oh thank god. I thought- but you're still in there. You're going to be alright, I promise, just d _on't go to sleep._ Do you hear me? I need you to stay awake. I need you to keep talking to me'.

There was a hand squeezing her own icy fingers, and she had the vague, uncomfortable feeling that she was meant to be holding something else, that it had been vitally important that she not let go... only she couldn't remember what it was. She just needed to sleep, she'd work it out in the morning.

'M'tired Deels. I just... need... for a minute...'

' _No_ Patsy. You open your eyes and look at me. I will not lose you. Not again. Not like this. Damn it, Patience Elizabeth Mount, you owe me this. _Wake up_ '.

It was funny. The voice didn't _sound_ like an angel. The beloved Welsh lilt was there, but it was tinged with panic, and the edge of sobs that were only just being held back. It sounded _real._

Patsy blinked, forcing herself to focus through the pounding in her head.

'Delia? S'that really you? How... find me?'

'I didn't know I had. Not at first. I'm with the rescue team, digging people out. We almost missed you. We found Mrs Winston, but there wasn't meant to _be_ anyone else. She hadn't even registered the pregnancy. We were about to move on. We _would_ have moved on, except I heard the baby. So quiet. A little, spluttering, mewling sound half choked with the dust, but it was there. And so were you. Oh God Pats, I thought you were-'

Delia's voice broke off and she took a deep, shuddering breath.

'But you're not. You're alive, and you're going to stay that way. We'll have you out of here in no time, just hold on a little longer'.

At last Patsy remembered where she was, and what had happened.

'Mrs Winston! Pearl...'

'She's alright Pats. Well...she's alive, and they think she'll pull through'.

'Baby?'

'The baby's fine. Hardly a scratch on her, though she's hypothermic and I expect they'll keep her in for a few days just to be on the safe side. But you saved her Pats'.

Her head still felt felt as though she'd been hit with a brick (which of course, she had), and now she was coming round further, Patsy was all too aware that she was lying half buried in rubble on a freezing December night, and had come perilously close to death. Was maybe _still_ perilously close. But somehow, in spite of it all she felt brighter than she had in months. In seven months three weeks and two days, to be precise. April 23rd, 1943. That was the last time she'd seen Delia, and the day she'd made the biggest mistake of her life. Ever since then she'd assumed Delia would want nothing more to do with her, but the fierce grip of the hand and the tenderness of her voice suggested otherwise.

When at last Patsy was freed from the rubble Delia accompanied her into the ambulance, refusing all offers of relief from her colleagues and shutting the door firmly on their protests.

As they pulled away, Patsy felt tears building behind her eyes. Finding herself here, even injured and half frozen as she was, felt like being given a second chance she had never expected to get. She had survived, but that was the least of it. Because Delia was here, and they were both alive, and all of a sudden that seemed to be the only thing in the world that mattered. Her words still came out croaky and slightly slurred, but she had to say them.

'Delia, I'm sorry'.

Delia's hands stilled for a moment, but then went back to checking her for broken ribs, eyes remaining resolutely on her task.

'There's no need to be sorry. It's my job to get people out, and it's not like you chose to be there. You couldn't leave your patient'.

'Not for that. I... I'm sorry for before. For leaving the hospital so suddenly. For leaving _you_ '.

She half expected Delia to shout at her, or to tell her briskly that this didn't change anything and that they should keep things strictly professional until they were both free to go their separate ways once more. But she didn't. Instead she said simply

'Why did you? Didn't you... was I wrong? About the way you felt?'

'Oh Delia, _no_. I left because I was a rotten coward. I loved you beyond reason. Never felt that way before, not about... about anyone. It terrified me. I was afraid of people finding out, of losing my position, and everything here... but...I think. Mostly scared... scared I'd lose you. I couldn't bear it. So I left first. It was so, so stupid, but I haven't ever really dared to let anyone close since my mother died, and I panicked. I've regretted it ever since. Every day'.

The tears could be held back no longer, cutting tracks through the crust of blood and grime on her face and soaking into the thin pillow beneath her head. When she dared to glance at Delia, there were tears in her own eyes.

'Oh Pats. You are a fool'.

'I know'.

There was nothing else to say about it, was there? She had been a total fool. She had ruined everything, and being sorry couldn't take back the months they'd spent apart. She thought perhaps they would go the rest of the way in silence, but after a couple of minutes Delia spoke, her question held out like a peace offering.

'Tell me what it's like, where you are now. Someone said you'd gone to a convent. I could hardly believe it after all those stories you used to tell about the nuns at your boarding school. Is it really true?'

She might only have been asking to keep Patsy from falling asleep, but even so she felt ridiculously grateful. There was no bitterness in Delia, no grudge held, even when it was so richly deserved.

'I'm afraid it's true, but it's not like you might expect. The nuns are some of the kindest and most compassionate women I've ever met. I've learned such a lot from them'.

She went on to tell Delia about Nonnatus House, about the friends she'd made there, and how different district work was to the environment of the male surgical ward where the two of them had once worked together.

'It led me to make quite a few faux pas in the early days. My first day there I told Trixie that the banana coronet she wanted to make looked like Stone Henge made out of penises'.

'You _didn't'._

_'_ I'm afraid I did. In front of a nun, no less. It was just the sort of thing one said on male surgical, but evidently not in a convent. The poor girl didn't know where to look'.

The sound of Delia's laughter filled the ambulance, seeming briefly to illuminate the dimly lit interior. She hadn't realised until that moment how much she'd missed making Delia laugh.

Then it was Delia's turn. Doing what she did she must see things too awful to bear on a daily basis, but Delia had a knack for finding the light moments among the devastation. She told Patsy about the night they'd found a child who had fallen in his crib through the kitchen ceiling without ever stirring, or receiving so much as a nosebleed though the house was almost destroyed. She told her of the cat who had gone into a still burning building and brought out a litter of kittens, one by one by the scruffs of their necks to be petted and fussed over by the people outside. She told funny stories about the other nurses, and irreverent tales of the more pompous consultants at the hospital. And it felt as though no time had passed at all since they'd last been together.

Patsy was so absorbed in the conversation in fact that she jumped a little to hear Phyllis calling out from the front

'We'll be there in 5 minutes. Hang in there kid'.

Five minutes. That was all the time Patsy had left to be alone with Delia, after that... there was no telling what would happen. She reached for Delia's hand, clinging to it a little desperately, terrified that she would be rejected but even more afraid to waste this chance when she might never get another. If only her head would stop pounding so she could think. It seemed unfair to have to say the most important words of her life with what was almost certainly at least a mild concussion. But one couldn't have everything, and this couldn't wait.

'Delia, I know what I did to you was unforgivable, and I don't expect you to just take me back as if nothing had happened. But... I'm ready now. To be with you, however you'll have me. I never stopped loving you Deels. I might never stop being afraid either, but I've realised that being with you is worth being afraid for. It's even worth losing everything else for, if it ever came to that. More than worth it. I don't expect you feel the same after everything I've done, but if you'd even consider trying to be friends... well, I'd really like to see you again'.

By now they were turning in to the hospital grounds, she could here shouts from the crew who would receive her stretcher, coming closer...

Delia gave her a fond, exasperated look and whispered again

'You are a _fool,_ Pats'.

And then, very gently so as not to jostle any of her injuries, Delia pressed a kiss to Patsy's lips, lingering for what could have been seconds or minutes as the world seemed to grow still around them. Delia smelled of smoke and sweat, and Patsy could taste the dust and blood on her own lips, but none of it mattered. There was nothing, _nothing_ that could have made that moment more perfect. Not a bed of roses or a choir of angels. Not champagne or real coffee or a huge box of unrationed chocolates. Delia had forgiven her. They might still have a way to go, but they had this too. It wasn't over.

They drew quickly apart as the doors were flung open. Before she could so much as blink, Patsy was being lifted and born aloft on her stretcher, out of the ambulance and away from Delia. But the warmth of her kiss still lingered on Patsy's lips, and she knew in that moment that she would never truly be cold again.


End file.
